A Reputation Reclaimed

Chapter Twelve

True to his word, Lowen escorted Helena wherever she wished to go. One evening, they visited Covent Garden and watched a pantomime while sharing candied almonds that he had purchased from a local vendor. More recently, they had strolled beneath a starry sky through Vauxhall, taking a secluded path often used for clandestine meetings. Whenever they happened upon a couple, Helena distanced herself from him, perhaps in fear that the image of coupling would inspire amorous advances from him.

Lowen could hardly blame her for her fears. He had rutted her crudely, in a manner suited for a more experienced woman—one he had wrongly assumed her to be. But that was no excuse. It had been their first time together in a marriage bed, and Lowen vowed to make amends for that in due time as well. Now, all he wanted was the simple tenderness of her hand in his as they walked side by side.

It was strange for Lowen to think of himself this way, as a man who merely wished to be in his wife's company and to make her happy. From the few memories he had of his father, he recalled him declaring it unfashionable for a husband and wife to spend too much time together. Nonsensical rhetoric, Lowen had come to realize—though he wondered if his mother had taken that sentiment to mean she shouldn't spend much time with her children either. As Lowen found himself gradually relaxing into this new role, sharp reminders of his father snapped at him now and then. The man had barely grieved Benjamin before shortly dying himself, but not before imparting strict edicts and misguided beliefs that had influenced Lowen for far too long.

Now, while in the Dowager Countess of Auden's drawing room, Lowen found himself smiling as he watched Helena play the pianoforte, no sheet music required, just as she had told him.

This was the first assembly she'd attended since drunkenly trampling Lady Charlotte. Though her absence from society would do nothing to stave off the gossip, at least now she was safer from outright scrutiny with him by her side. The guests at the Dowager Countess's were not the typical set Lowen associated with, but Helena found some comfort among the like-minded young women who frequented her gatherings, so Lowen would not protest. As long as she found kindred spirits to make up for enduring the individuals in his circle—ones he occasionally struggled to tolerate himself—that was all that mattered to him.

The new friends Helena had made gathered around her at the pianoforte, watching the performance, while the Dowager Countess swayed to the music, a drink in hand. Lowen stood by the hearth, his elbow resting on the mantel as he observed Helena with quiet admiration.

That was until he felt a nudge at his side. Lowen glanced down. It was the man from the opera—Mr. Pruitt, or was it Pritchard? It hardly mattered. He was one of the fools at Lady Crockwell's party ages ago, placing that asinine wager on whether or not Helena would marry this season.

"Pardon me, Your Grace," he murmured.

They lingered in silence for a moment. Lowen considered walking away, but more guests shuffled in front of him to hear the music, blocking his route. He stayed put, hoping the man would have the good sense not to talk to him.

"Are you sure you've no desire to pocket the winnings?" Mr. Pruitt—or Pritchard—leaned in too closely, the smell of spirits heavy on his breath. "Quite a few wagered against her. Very few believed Miss Helena—er, Her Grace—would marry. There's plenty of coin to split among the winners. Consider it a wedding gift from the club."

"I was never part of that wager," Lowen replied through gritted teeth. "And I've no use for the paltry sum you hold. Since you're unwed and without fortune, I suggest you put it to better use in Soho Square—if it'll even take you that far."

At the mention of the notorious street of brothels, Mr. Pruitt—or Pritchard—flushed an even deeper shade of red, his already drink-swelled face burning with embarrassment. "A simple no would've sufficed, Your Grace."